


Delicious in All the Right Ways

by BootsnBlossoms



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Body Image, Fluff and Angst, Food as Comfort, French Cooking, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-12
Updated: 2012-11-12
Packaged: 2017-11-18 13:17:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/561479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BootsnBlossoms/pseuds/BootsnBlossoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Would you like some help?”</p><p>Mycroft stood, pulled out his largest, heaviest stainless steel frying pan, and placed a half packet of butter in it.  He, at least for the moment, was finding John’s company an unexpected pleasure.  Today had been such a bad day – the longest in a string of them, in fact – and he could use some company.  And if John crossed the line from friendly companion to source of stress, Mycroft would have him out on his arse fast as you please.</p><p>“I would love the help.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Delicious in All the Right Ways

**Author's Note:**

  * For [herbailiwick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/herbailiwick/gifts).



> A Tumblr request from joncroftianlullaby (formerly known as herbailiwick). The John/Mycroft pairing is fun, so why not? Ends with some not-overly-explicit couch sex because I'm predictable like that. It does take place after Season 2, and assumes that Mycroft doesn't known Sherlock faked his death, but it isn't sad.

174 hateful red speckles. Seven unattractive pale scars – two of which were thick lines of disgusting keloid tissue. Skin that stretched little too easily in all the wrong places. Marks that evidenced the weight gained and lost over the years on his sides.

Mycroft closed his eyes as he swept the soapy scrub up over his clavicle and down his arm. Sometimes avoidance really was the best way to deal with distasteful things, he thought to himself. He took a deep breath and let his forehead hit the tiled wall as the hot water coursed down his back and shoulders, the smell of expensive body wash filling his nose and surrounding him.

There were so many distasteful things these days. His long game on behalf of the British empire held no joy for him lately – since the death of his brother, tediousness rather than wicked satisfaction filled his days. And today had been terrible. His 13 year battle with his American counterpart over a certain African border town had finally reached completion. He had won, of course – it was all a matter of strategy and patience, both of which he excelled at - but the victory was hollow. In fact, it had made him feel cold to his core. Another item scratched off the to-do list, one more adventure completed with nothing to replace it with. The finality of it tugged at something deep inside him. It wasn’t triumph. It was futility. 

Once the muscles in his neck felt slightly less knotted, Mycroft turned off the water and climbed out, quickly toweling himself off, and got dressed before the mirror had a chance to unfog. He was already having a depressing day. He didn’t need to see the physical evidence of his long term failures in his waistline on top of everything else.

A few minutes later found him dressed in his usual evening attire – running shorts and a comfortable but decidedly unglamorous t-shirt. Barefooted, he padded down the stairs to his massive kitchen, pulling out his family cookbook and carefully paging through it. What to make tonight? Perhaps, for starters, a white truffle risotto, followed by French onion soup (served in a home-made bread bowl, of course). Beef for the main course – perhaps prosciutto-wrapped tenderloin. Mycroft smiled to himself, thumbing through the well-loved pages, tracing his finger’s over the scribbles of his mother’s writing in the margins of Grandmere’s chocolate cream puff recipe. There was no better way to end the day than with a cream puff.

An hour later found the kitchen awash in the delightful smells, sounds, and flavors of Mycroft’s childhood. A beef broth was simmering on the back burner, and the dough for the soup bowls was on its first rise. The tang of onions was sharp in the air as he cut through them slowly and methodically, tears streaming down his face. He smiled as he took another sip of Bordeaux, listening as Lucienne Boyer crooned in the background, pushing the chopped remains of the first onion to the side of the cutting board in order to make room for a second. Sometimes it was nice to let root vegetables do your emotional work for you.

A sudden knock at the door had Mycroft wiping his face with a handkerchief and back to frowning. Not many knew where he lived; of the few that did, none would come visit him unless it were life or death. Even then they would have the courtesy to call first… he stuffed his hand in his apron pocket to pull out his phone. Still working, fully charged. The only other person he would normally suspect was, at present, buried six feet under.

Mycroft set down the knife and exchanged it for the pistol he kept in the drawer by the fridge. Surely security would have stopped any potentially dangerous types from ringing his doorbell, but one never could be too careful.

A quick glance through the peephole, however, revealed his visitor to be none other than John H. Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers – and, of course, colleague, flatmate, and friend of his dearly departed brother.

Mycroft stood more straightly, tugging his clothes into some semblance of order, wincing at the fact that he hadn’t combed his hair, instead allowing his ginger locks to fall into an uncombed wavy mass. John was sure to be shocked at this less well-kempt version of himself, but after a brief moment of irritation he felt nothing but a rushing sense of despair. It didn’t matter. Of course it didn’t matter. John probably was only here to berate Mycroft some more, to direct his anger at the easiest target available to him since the truly guilty had blown his own head off moments before his master plan all came together in dreadful conclusion. He lowered the gun, titled his chin in a mask of arrogant defiance, braced himself, and opened the door.

“Doctor Watson? To what do I owe the pleasure?”

John stood there quietly for moment, taking in Mycroft’s appearance with obvious surprise. His wandering eyes fell on the ruffled hair, the stained apron, the gun, the bare feet. He cleared his throat. “Mycroft? I was wondering if, uh…” He was interrupted by the sound of a splashing hiss, causing Mycroft to give his own hiss of displeasure. “Damn, the bouillon.” He could feel John hesitate behind him before following. “Would you be so kind as to lock it behind you, John?” Mycroft called back as he lowered the heat and stirred.

“I didn’t know you cooked.” John said, looking around with what Mycroft could have sworn was admiration. 

Mycroft gave a small smile. “Yes, it’s a family tradition. As you’ve noticed, we Holmes have very active minds that tend to run themselves ragged if not kept properly occupied. Sherlock’s love of chemistry did not come from nowhere. He just broke from family tradition in making something more delightful of it.”

John grinned, and – much to Mycroft’s surprised delight – sat down at the polished wooden table. “That makes sense. I used to think it was just a run of the mill eating disorder, but his behavior never actually fit the parameters quite right. But now something tells me it was just another way of rebelling against family tradition.”

“Yes, he always hated family dinners. He did try, sometimes, when he was a boy. Once, he made a perfect berry pie, even going so far as to carve intricate little flowers from his pie crust to decorate the top with. But a visiting aunt unwittingly set a tin of beans on top of it and, to his mind at least, ruined the entire delightful confection. It’s too bad, really. It was still quite scrumptious.” Mycroft poured John a glass of wine and sat down across from him. John’s smile was small, but honest.

How odd. Something was unfurling from behind his navel and in the corners of his mind. He felt oddly relaxed, and for all they were talking about his dead brother, the pang of guilt and sadness was somewhat lessened. 

“Smells like onions in here. Rather overwhelmingly of onions, in fact.” John wiped at the corner of his eye, still smiling. “And the broth smells amazing. Onion soup?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Would you like some help?”

Mycroft hesitated as the possibilities for the evening dashed through his mind like movie shorts on a train. 1) Refuse, ask John what he was really here for, get the (most likely unpleasant) answer in the form of more recriminations or questions he couldn’t/wouldn’t answer. 2) Refuse, escort him out before the negative conversation could happen, finish cooking in silence and peace. 3) Allow him to stay, help, have the (most likely unpleasant) conversation over dinner preparation. 4) Allow him to stay, help, have dinner, not have the conversation John came here to have.

Mycroft stood, pulled out his largest, heaviest stainless steel frying pan, and placed a half packet of butter in it. He, at least for the moment, was finding John’s company an unexpected pleasure. Today had been such a bad day – the longest in a string of them, in fact – and he could use some company. And if John crossed the line from friendly companion to source of stress, Mycroft would have him out on his arse fast as you please.

“I would love the help.”

The next several moments were passed in silence as Mycroft pulled out an extra knife and cutting board and proceeded to clear some workspace. John passed the time pulling off his shoes and jumper, revealing a faded but comfortable looking British Army Combative Training t-shirt. “Would you like an apron, Doctor?”

“Yes, please. I don’t suppose you have a pair of swim goggles?”

Mycroft cocked his head and raised his eyebrow as he passed over another black apron. “Swim goggles?”

“I saw it on an American TV show. The characters were chopping onions and wore swim goggles to keep from crying. Looked effective.”  
“That’s actually quite a clever idea.” Mycroft chuckled, watching John’s arms flex as he tied the apron behind him. “Have you made French onion soup before?”

“Once or twice. But I have to admit, I’m impressed. I’ve never made my own bread to go with it before.” John nodded to the rising dough in the corner. 

“It’s not difficult, merely time consuming. I find it rather meditative, actually.”

John brushed up against him in a gesture of friendly agreement, and Mycroft’s thought processes stuttered and stalled for minute. He used a wooden spoon to push the melting butter around the bottom of the pan and watched as John kept slicing onion rings.

People didn’t touch Mycroft, as a rule. They were wary of him and avoided him, and indeed his cold and aloof manner encouraged nothing but. People held him in fearful esteem and he liked it that way. They reacted. They didn’t encourage.

But then, John had always been an exception.

He tossed the onions in the pan, smiling as they sizzled.

“What are we listening to?” John asked as he washed the knives and boards.

“Lucienne Boyer.”

“I always though Sherlock seemed a bit more French than English.”

“Indeed.” Mycroft chuckled as he swept the remains of the onions off the counter, washed it, and started to set out the ingredients for the risotto. “But while Sherlock’s passionate behavior and features betrayed our mother’s genealogy more than mine, he never cared much for the culture.”

“And you do?”

Mycroft turned from the caramelizing onions to preparing the tenderloin. He handed John the truffles to prepare. “We spent a lot of time in the summer at Gradmere’s Auteuil villa in the 16th arrondissement as children. We played at the Bois de Boulogne, watched matches at the Garros, danced in the garden at night. Grandmere told stories about Marcel Petiot – the neighborhood’s serial killer during the Nazi occupation – over the stove as she taught us to cook. She sang us songs from albums like the one you’re listening to now.”

John had stopped measuring the rice to watch Mycroft. 

“I’m sorry, John. It seems that as much of my life as I’ve been scorning sentiment, the little bit I’ve managed to hold on to has wormed its destructive way into the habits of my old age.”

Mycroft was looking down as he wrapped the beef and placed it in a baking dish so he couldn’t see John’s face. But the brief touch, the slide of knuckles down the side of his jaw, was unmistakably tender.

The rest of the meal’s preparation passed quietly, with little snatches of quiet conversation coming between the sounds of cooking. John watched in awe as Mycroft painstakingly prepared the Chouz pastry, and Mycroft had all but giggled as John poured the wine into the onion pan with a flourish, sweeping the resulting waves of evaporated Merlot towards his face was an exaggerated “Voilà! Délicieux!” Mycroft briefly considered cutting John’s wine consumption before he thought better of it. He hadn’t felt this good in months. He even tossed the bread dough in the air a few times before setting it over upturned bowls to bake.

Dinner was obviously an extravagant affair to John, who watched with increasing fascination as Mycroft set the plates, cracked their second bottle of wine (third if you counted the remnants of the merlot not used in the soup) and put down linens in perfectly shined rings on the table. “Heirlooms?” John hazarded a guess.

“Indeed.”

“Do you eat like this every night?”

Mycroft frowned, for all it seemed that John hadn’t meant it as an insult. Nonetheless, he sat a little straighter, sucking in his stomach a bit. “I enjoy cooking. It requires focus and constant attention to detail. And the result far surpasses much of what one gets from even the best restaurants.”

John looked up from his rice, obviously catching something in Mycroft’s tone. “I didn’t mean… that is, I’m impressed. Genuinely impressed, Mycroft.”

Something caught in Mycroft’s throat. He took another sip of wine. “You didn’t do so badly, John. You are a decent cook yourself.”

John laughed. “Oh please. I’m more of a least-amount-of-energy-expended-for-maximum-return sort of guy. Most of my meals are improved by some combination of salt, sugar, and tomato sauce.”

“Sounds like the culinary approach favored by most of her Majesty’s soldiers.”

“Seventeen years in the military do tend to shape one’s habits. Though I should confess to a sudden interest in learning to make bread. This is amazing, Mycroft.”

Mycroft had only the wine to blame for what happened next. “I could teach you?”

To his delight, John smiled. “I would like that.”

The meal ended in chuckles and small talk about their favorite and most reviled foods. Was it his imagination that John’s smile held a bit of suggestiveness as he went on about how much he loved ice cream melting in his mouth? Must be the wine, he thought. Nonetheless, he responded with a crack about the satisfaction of a good sausage in one’s mouth and blushed at John’s high-pitched giggle.

They had just finished the clearing and washing when the timer went off for the puffs. Mycroft, a bit dizzy, held onto the counter tightly as he pulled the baking sheet out of the oven and set it on a cooling rack. 

“Now, we have to wait to let these cool a bit before scooping the centers and adding the cream.” He gestured towards the sitting room, but in his slightly inebriated state, he ended up pitching forward a bit. John caught him and smiled. 

“Easy now. Lead the way, chef!”

They stumbled through the hallway, and Mycroft found himself leaning on John more than was strictly necessary. He didn’t often get to revel in another man’s warmth. It was a sentiment and luxury he couldn’t afford. But tonight he clung to his unexpected dinner guest, for once not thinking about tomorrow’s next bold move at Whitehall.

John pushed Mycroft onto the couch and sat heavily next to him on the floor. “The was the best damn meal I’ve had in years, perhaps ever. Thank you Mycroft.”

Mycroft waved his hand dismissively. “It would be a wonder and a treat were I to indulge only occasionally. As it is, I spend every evening knowing how much I’m going to regret eating it when I’m finished. And, because in some things at least I’m exceptionally predictable, I do finish eating and start regretting. If only I had used less sugar, or low fat milk, or skipped the starter and the bread. ‘Well’ I tell myself, ‘you can go for a run in the morning to work it off.’ But I never do. It’s a vicious cycle, and so my one greatest pleasure has also turned into my biggest self-recrimination.” He suddenly snapped his mouth shut, realizing what he’d said, how much he let slip. He closed his eyes, not willing to look at John. “Well, not my biggest, obviously,” he amended.

Silence dominated as Mycroft thunked his head back on the sofa, regret and embarrassment rushing a cold wave down his body. But he was startled into opening his eyes as he felt a gentle kiss pressed into his bare knee where John’s head had been pressed just a moment ago. The kiss lingered, dry and soft, and Mycroft couldn’t help but sigh. 

“John…”

“You’re beautiful just the way you are, Mycroft.” John’s voice was barely a whisper over Mycroft’s pale skin, and the next kiss was pressed a few inches higher. “Truly.” 

Mycroft felt John’s hands behind his knees, and was aware of being pulled down slowly and carefully. The next kiss landed on his thigh, and he felt John’s callused hand push up his shorts. Another kiss, this one dangerously close to his hip. Despite himself, Mycroft pushed his hips suggestively forward. John chuckled and pushed his nose into the crease of thigh and groin. Mycroft groaned, then felt a rush of sobriety as he realized what was happening. He grabbed John by the hair and pulled his head back and up, forcing their eyes to meet.

“What are you doing?”

“I thought it would be obvious.”

“Why?”

“Because we both want it. Have for awhile, if I’m not very much mistaken.”

Mycroft softened his grip but not his gaze. “I’m not Sherlock.”

To his surprised, John laughed. “Thank god for that! Can you imagine? Me and Sherlock? I loved the daft bastard, but I didn’t, uh… we never would have…” John sighed and rested his head on Mycroft’s hip. “We didn’t and wouldn’t have, Mycroft. He was my best friend. That’s it. Surely you of all people know that.”

Mycroft nodded. His surveillance and knowledge of Sherlock’s proclivities (or lack thereof) led to him that believe that nothing was going on between them, but that didn’t mean John didn’t want it to. Hearing it from John at this moment released the last bit of tension he’d held in his shoulders all night. “Thank you, John.”

The next thing he knew his mouth was being enveloped in a deep kiss, John’s stomach pressed between his legs, hands sliding under his shirt to wrap around him. He felt a whole new tension start to build in his body, the good kind, until John’s hands traced down his sides. Mycroft felt himself sucking in his stomach and straightening. He tried to pull away, but John wouldn’t let him. John pressed his mouth to Mycroft’s temple and whispered. “Don’t Mycroft. Let me show you how wonderful this can be. Delicious in all the right ways.”

Before he knew it, Mycroft was stripped of clothing and laid bare under John’s gaze, kisses being pressed into clusters of despised freckles, brushed over every hated scar, nipped into his soft places. He was a mess, moaning and writhing, wanting to pull away and pull closer at the same time. But every time he felt John’s hands and John’s mouth worship a new piece of imperfect skin, he felt himself care a little less. Soon he was sitting upright, back pressed into the sofa, with a naked John in his lap slowly sinking down. He cried out in pleasure and amazement as John didn’t hesitate to move, sliding up and down quickly, not giving Mycroft a chance to direct. He found himself slamming upwards without hesitation, wondering only briefly how John knew exactly what he needed and wanted before screaming his release into John’s neck, pulsing deeply inside of him. John followed quickly afterwards, into his own hand and all over Mycroft’s stomach. They sat panting and shivering for a few minutes, John still pressing kisses into Mycroft’s neck. 

“Thank you, John.”

John reluctantly slid off Mycroft, grabbing his shirt to clean them both off before settling next to him, curled into his body heat. He pulled a blanket down off the back of the sofa and covered them both. “You’re not going to regret this in the morning, are you? Blaming the rich food and the wine?” John’s voice was mostly amused, but Mycroft could detect the hint of uncertainty underlying it. “I have more to offer. A morning calisthenics routine that would be a perfect antidote to your ambivalence over dinner. Guaranteed to not just burn the calories from bread, but make you feel better about the rest of the day every day. 

Mycroft smiled. “Will you stay to show me in the morning? My bed is quite large.”

John’s grin was incandescent. “Absolutely. Dessert first, though. I think a bit of chocolate is exactly what we need.”

He stood and pulled a still naked Mycroft back into the kitchen. Mycroft hesitated as he washed his hands, unhappy with what the brighter, harsher light of the kitchen was sure to be revealing that the softer lighting of the sitting room had left hidden. But John came up behind him, wrapped his arms around, and, naked front pressed to naked back, kissed his shoulder. “God you’re gorgeous.” 

Mycroft smiled, turned to give a kiss back, and strode to the refrigerator to pull out the cream. “Shall we?”

**Author's Note:**

> bootsnblossoms.tumblr.com


End file.
